


Kind of sad

by CrumblingAsh



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Adorable Bruce Banner, Bruce Feels, Christmas, Christmas Presents, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, No OT3 this time, Protective Steve, Steve Is a Good Bro, Team as Family, Tony Being Tony, Tony Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-03 12:14:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2850506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrumblingAsh/pseuds/CrumblingAsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A loose-lipped conversation on Christmas Eve leads to Steve getting Bruce and Tony an unexpected Christmas present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

 

 

It’s early Christmas morning, and two men are sound asleep in the bed on the top floor.

 

The snow is falling in waves from the pitch-black sky when Clint’s navy Jeep finally slows to a stop at his feet. In Manhattan, it’s not unusual for the newly dubbed _Avengers Tower_ to be passed by a group curious tourists at any given hour of the day, every single one with a hope of catching sight of a superhero, more than most hoping for a picture. Right now, however, the streets are near empty save for the scattering of occupied homeless who never seem to care about a sighting either way, and while Steve’s not sure if it’s due to the weather or the fact that it’s nearly five hours into Christmas morning, he’s grateful. Clothed as appropriately for the weather as he can be with his increased body temperature, he’s freezing anyway, hands crammed into the lined pockets of his thick coat, shoulders shivering in near-violence as he hunches as far into himself as he can get to chase the warmth that hasn’t gone anywhere. Snow sticks to his head like subzero napalm, dripping in tiny rivulets down his neck until all he can feel is the wicked reminder of melting ice.

 

The passenger door swings open, missing his knees by the breath of an inch as Natasha gracefully steps out, already eyeing him. “You could have waited inside,” she informs him dryly. Her lips are quirked, however, one small upturn to show understanding as the vehicle’s engine cuts off. “We both know cold isn’t your thing.”

 

“Yeah, well.” Steve shrugs; it’s true enough, and they don’t talk about it. He blinks as Clint climbs out of the driver’s seat empty handed. “Did you get it?” It comes out as a disappointed demand, a little harsher than he intends and he winces, apology already forming, but both former SHIELD agents are chuckling as Clint moves toward the back door.

 

“Chill, man, we got it.” He ducks into the door as quickly as he opens it, laughing out a huff as he does. “Hard as it is to keep hold of it. Nat’s got your other thing, we picked it up first. Here we are.” The door slams, and Clint rounds back in front of the Jeep, arms filled with Steve’s package.

 

A fluffy, near-white Golden Retriever puppy that wiggles wildly in Clint’s arms, too excited to hold still.

 

“Seriously, take him,” the archer deadpans, stopping in front of him and holding the whining puppy out pointedly. “I love dogs, but puppies are a little too high-maintenance for me.” Steve hurries to comply, pulling the puppy in close to his chest and locking his arms tight as it’s face eagerly darts for his, tongue barely missing his face. He blinks down into wide, beaming brown eyes.

 

It’s perfect.

 

“Inside,” Natasha commands, shoving them both toward the Tower’s entrance. A distant part of Steve’s mind, far back and logical, is concerned about leaving Clint’s Jeep at the curb and the possibilities of it getting towed. But the puppy is warm against his skin, content and happy as they step into the lobby and just as he had imagined, and Clint has a thing for the guard at the impound lot anyway. “We’ll take the second elevator if you’re going straight up there,” she offers, and he nods, too focused on the dog to see the amused smile his friends share over across his shoulders. With a small laugh, Natasha slips something into his pocket. “Good luck,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to his cheek before wrapping her arm through Clint’s and moving toward the opposite end of the hall. The other man waves over his shoulder, grinning brightly as they disappear through the metal door JARVIS automatically opens and closes without delay. They’ll sleep late, neither much for Christmas tradition, but the sniper is baking the pie for after dinner, so he’ll see them again before the holiday is over.

 

But right now, it’s just him and the puppy and the inconceivably important mission he had adopted less than twelve hours ago.

 

The door to his chosen elevator opens without request, and he grins as the puppy’s head flops over to stare at the moving “wall” in wonder.

 

“Easy, buddy,” he soothes as they walk in, scratching the puppy’s nose as it whines in newly gained excitement. It wriggles against him, interest overtaking its need to be close, and he chuckles again. “JARVIS?” He calls.

 

“Captain?” He can feel the little thing jump in his arms at the unexpected, sourceless voice of the AI.

 

“Can you go a little slow? I need to add something. Still good on stealth mode?”

 

“Of course, Captain.” He sounds amused, and the puppy worms even more, though this time it’s closer to Steve’s chest, the whimpers a little more lost than excited.

 

“Easy,” he murmurs again, smoothing his free hand over soft fur as he slowly lowers himself to the elevator floor. Settling the puppy between his knees, he reaches into his pocket for what Natasha had pushed in, withdrawing the thick blue collar and delicately attached red bow with careful fingers. “You’ve had a big day, huh? Let’s get this on you.” The puppy licks his fingers, and he huffs a small, excited smile. “I really hope they like you.”

 

By the time they reach the right floor the puppy is collared and bowed and yawning heavily in Steve’s arms, and JARVIS is dimly lighting the dark halls in the direction of their room. He moves silently in spite of his size, the carpet submissive beneath his shoes, and when he reaches the door he’s not surprised to see it cracked open. The puppy’s head lazily perks when he pushes it the rest of the way, but other than that movement, it stays silent as they enter the room the occupants are sleeping in.

 

They’re wrapped in blankets, clothed because they both loathe the December chill. Tonight, it’s Bruce who is curled into Tony, curled as tightly as possible as if trying to be small enough to be completely held. Tony, for his part, is wrapped around the other man like an octopus, one arm under Bruce’s neck to come around and cradle his head, the other wrapped low across his back, securing him. It’s neither usual nor unusual – Steve has seen it the other way, with Tony’s head buried under Bruce’s chin, quivering so violently even in sleep that Bruce’s hold will be like a vice. Sometimes they’re locked equally, foreheads pressed together, arms and legs intertwined, looking uncomfortable yet completely at ease; sometimes they spoon, no preference for who is holding – but they’re always touching.

 

It would feel wrong if they ever aren’t.

 

Steve approaches slowly, careful not to make a noise to wake them, and only lowers the puppy when he’s reached the foot of the bed. It’s tired, thank God, shuffles a little in confusion before realizing there’s another source of warmth, another set of _humans_ , on the bed it’s just been placed on. It shuffles slowly, yawning widely as it reaches Bruce’s leg, and then collapses against it, heaving a huge, exhausted sigh as it watches Steve with slowly closing eyes.

 

Tony shifts, mumbling, but not enough to wake, his attention instead focusing on Bruce, as it is wont to do, his arm tightening and drawing the other man closer. The puppy doesn’t move as its eyes close, effectively losing sight (and need) of Steve as it chooses sleep instead.

 

Again, Steve grins, slowly backing away. Doubtless both puppy and heroes will be awake within the hour.

 

He really hopes they like it.

 

* * *

 

 

_It was Christmas Eve._

_“I always wanted to get a puppy for Christmas.” Though he hadn’t had any alcohol, Bruce’s speech slurred from sleep deprivation, his eyes unnervingly focused on the beaming white lights of the Christmas tree as he sipped slowly from the mug of hot tea in his hand. Steve was worried he would fall asleep before he would finish it, resulting in a mess. “I would wake up every Christmas morning and hope for that one box that wasn’t really closed.” He took another sip._

_“Oh, yeah, same here.” Tony, however, was drunk. Though it was only six in the evening of Christmas Eve, Natasha had allowed the billionaire to open her present to him early – a large bottle of authentic Russian vodka, which was obviously pricey from the way Tony’s eyes had widened when he had opened it, and from the sly smile the two had shared. He hadn’t even bothered to get a glass before opening it to indulge in his first sip, and now as they sat there, just him and Bruce and Tony with Natasha and Clint on their own floor, he was already done with half the bottle. Unlike Bruce, his speech wasn’t slurred, but his tongue had progressively become looser with each swallow. “One that would grow big and curl up with me and let me hug on it. Not anything fancy, like a poodle or some shit. Just something that would get big.”_

_“I wasn’t picky.” Bruce shrugged, still staring at the wall. Sometimes it went like this, conversations between the two geniuses where everyone else would cease to exist; they had forgotten he was there.“Big, medium, small. It could be a mutt with an overbite and the worst raspy, most annoying bark ever. I just wanted one.” The cup in his hands shook a little. “My dad probably would have killed it, though. He didn’t like animals much.” Steve twitched at the mention of Bruce’s father._

_“My old man, either,” Tony agreed, leaning in on Bruce’s shoulder until the smaller man was forced to give him room to cuddle. It didn’t look like a hardship. “Said dogs were a waste of time. “Captain America never had a dog, Anthony. You don’t need one”.” He twitched again._

_“…I’m tired.” The words were muffled as Bruce pushed his face into Tony’s throat; the billionaire’s hand automatically went up card fingers through the other man’s hair. “I’ve been up for … a long time.”_

_“Twenty-eight hours and forty-seven minutes, Doctor Banner,” JARVIS offered quietly, and Tony’s drunken snort thankfully covered Steve’s soft one. He didn’t want to disturb them._

_“Okay, sex-on-wheels, I think we can call it a night. You’re exhausted, I’m drunk, great combination.” Tony was already moving to help Bruce stand._

_“…M’not on wheels, Tony,” Bruce corrected, and the confused expression that actually crossed his face at the idea melted the soldier a little._

_“Eh. I can get you rollerblades. It’s Christmas. Or do you prefer skates? Skateboard? I prefer skates-“_

_“I can totally kill you.”_

_“So bed then. I’m sorry, isn’t that what we were saying? Bed.”_

_“To sleep.” Bruce emphasized the last word with a startled stumble. Tony scoffed, though he cradled the scientist with a sure hand across his back._

_“Duh.”_

_Steve watched them go, remaining silent and out of their memories. There were times that he would wish that, if he had absolutely had to survive that plane crash, that he would have been found earlier. Not just so that he could have more time with Peggy, or found Bucky sooner, but so that he could have been there. So that he could have assured a little Tony that he was good enough, that he was wonderful, that he was loved. So that he could have somehow found Bruce and gotten him away from his father, could have loved him too, repercussions be damned. Gotten both sad, lonely little boys a damn puppy. These two men, two incredible, talented, remarkably kind and sacrificing men who he had the tentative honor to call friends, had deserved so much better than what they had been given by their fathers._

_Steve paused._

_Natasha owed him a favor._


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

 

Bruce never feels warm.

 

In echo, he never feels cold. His body drifts between the extremes of temperatures to hover in the realm of lukewarm, the corpse of chilled water left to stale in room temperature, the death of a steaming bath whose purpose has been served but was still grasped for. Numb, with no sensation whatsoever. It just is, and has always been.

 

 And because of this, Bruce quietly marvels at the heat Tony exudes with each careful breath, wraps himself around the other’s body in sleep so that he may siphon reverberations of that warmth to feel what isn’t his (“it is, though,” Tony had said once, quiet and serious because in the end, Bruce tells Tony everything, even the things he doesn’t want to tell himself. “What’s mine is yours, Banner, and vice versa if you want.” And then a leer, waggled eyebrows moving with such exaggeration that Bruce had reluctantly chuckled. “You have _uninhibited claim_ to my body, Doctor. Which includes body heat. Sex not mandatory. Appreciated, yes, but not mandatory.” Stupid Tony and all his damn options). His nights are spent pleasantly warm, curled into aweing affection, and in the mornings he wakes up… well, not rejuvenated, but … all right. He wakes up okay. And Tony wakes up okay, too, with a funny little smile on his face that always jerks at Bruce’s throat.

 

This morning, however, when his eyes crack open, he’s _hot._

 

His face is burrowed into Tony’s neck, as is often their position, and he can just barely make out the beginning reaches of sunlight into the Manhattan skyline over the slope of the other’s clothed shoulder; their bodies aren’t completely touching. Tony’s knees are boney, an acquired comfort, but Bruce’s legs are relaxed against the cushioning of the bed and not entwined with another set. And yet there was something pressed against his leg, something soft and gentle and _hot_ , that moves in counterpoint with his breathing. Something that isn’t _his_.

 

In the recess of his mind, always awake and waiting, the Other Guy stirs, pulsing curiosity that isn’t yet threatening, reacting – he cringes, hard, but keeps his body perfectly still.

 

“Tony,” he puffs against the man’s neck; the billionaire twitches at tickling contact, but otherwise doesn’t move. Bruce nips gently, firmly at his shoulder. “ _Tony_ ,” he murmurs again, winces as the Other Guy shifts forward at the urgency he can’t hold back. _Stay, stop, I’m fine. We’re fine. Stop-_

 

“Bruce?” Tony is awake. “Wa’sit?” He asks lowly, the fingers of the hand on Bruce’s back lightly tracing his spine. “You’re tense as fuck – nightmare? Is it the Hul- what the hell is that?” Because the thing next to Bruce’s leg is suddenly moving.

 

And _whimpering._ Tony is up like a shot, practically pulling Bruce with him.

 

“Oh my fucking _God_.”

 

It’s a dog.

 

It’s a _puppy._

 

“Oh my God,” Bruce echoes, doesn’t even notice when the Other Guy falls back into uninterested existence as the ball of yellow fur takes notices of their wakefulness and squirms eagerly forward, stumbling over its awkward feet and the twist of blankets until it falls directly into Bruce’s lap. “Oh my _God_ ,” falls from his mouth again as the puppy’s whimpering escalates into excited whining – a warm, tiny, furious tongue attacks his chin. “Hi, hi. _Hi._ Yes, I see you - Tony?” He chokes out, hands automatically bracing around the puppy’s sides as it tries to get closer still. It’s so soft, so warm. There’s a fairly large red bow attached to the blue collar around its neck -“Did you-?”

 

“ _No.”_ Even with the strong lack of light, Bruce can see the wide set of the billionaire’s disbelieving eyes, the shake of his hand as he slowly reaches from bow. The puppy, too, notes the movement, briefly abandoning its quest of licking Bruce’s face off to lap instead at the reaching fingers, takes no notice of the flinch that crosses Tony’s features as he pulls at the bundle. “I don’t-“ _You don’t buy yourself what you don’t deserve._

 

The bow unravels, short but with purpose, falling off of the collar with little fanfare and a spiral of words on its white inside. The puppy has turned its attention to gnawing gently on Bruce’s fingers, and slowly Tony straightens the bow, softly calling to JARVIS for an increase in lights as he spreads it over the bed. The lettering is thin, elegantly curved, but they both can make the words out clearly.

 

 

 

 

**_A present that’s a few years delayed but no less deserved. He needs a name._ **

**_Merry Christmas._ **

**_PS_ **

**_Had there been time, Captain America would have had a dog._ **

 

 

 

****

“Fucking _Steve,_ I am _never_ getting drunk around him _again_.” Despite the words, there is no heat to Tony’s voice; his eyes have moved from the message to the puppy still happily chewing on Bruce’s fingers.

 

A _puppy._

 

“We have a dog,” Bruce breathes, his own voice trembling. The rumbling from his chest sets the tiny thing off again for a whole new round of vigorous licking that pulls hysterical laughter from his throat. It’s – _he’s_ perfect. “Tony, we have a _dog_.”

 

“Yeah, well, he can be just yours, if you want.” The other man’s tone is strangely subdued, doubtful. “He seems to like you. You’ve always wanted a dog.”

 

Bruce’s eyes shoot up to his lover, laughter dead.

 

When he and Tony had finally stopped dancing around each other, finally owned up to the ridiculousness of their attraction and started dating, it had been difficult for Bruce to pin down who hated themselves more – him or Tony. There had been no doubt then (or doubt now) that Bruce didn’t deserve the other man, but he had learned through bruises and broken bones that happiness was fleeting and fragile, learned to grab it when it was offered, let it go when it was done. Tony had learned through emptiness and abandonment that happiness was a lie, and he had treated Bruce like a ghost, like a beautiful temptation that couldn’t possibly be meant for him (so why even try?). It had led to fights, horrible fights and too many near breakups with Bruce packing a bag under the same expression on Tony’s face that he’s wearing now.

 

“ _You’ve_ always wanted a dog,” he says slowly, watches as Tony flinches again. It’s minute, small. “We both have. And now he’s _right here_. See, Tony?” He gently lifts the puppy. “Right here.” And really he should ask, or at least warn, but this is _Tony Stark_ , so he just – plops the puppy straight onto the man’s lap.

 

“Bruce-!”

 

Whatever argument the other genius is planning dies instantly under the onslaught of excited puppy kisses that tear up a whole new set of laughs from Bruce’s chest. Tony squawks in indignation, flailing a little as the puppy moves to stand on his legs with his front paws on Tony’s chest; there’s no movement to push him off, move him away; Tony finally huffs, hands moving to stroke over the puppy’s head, laughing a little himself.

 

“He doesn’t hate me.” Bruce doesn’t respond; if the puppy had gone to Tony first, he would have felt the same. It just … is. “Dummy’s going to be so jealous.” He keeps petting.

 

“We’ll set puppy-workshop rules up later,” the physicist interjects dryly, chuckles again when Tony sticks out his tongue, only to quickly withdraw it as the puppy launches for it. “But maybe we should name him first?”

 

“Yeah,” Tony agrees; he’s smiling a little, that odd little one he wears in the mornings. “Names are fun. Names. You need one, furbutt.”

 

The puppy yips, happy to be addressed. Bruce laughs again and darts in, pushing a quick kiss to Tony’s temple. “Merry Christmas.”

 

It’s sentimental, fast and mushy, and there’s a _puppy._

 

“We’re _not_ naming him _Christmas_ , Banner. God.”

 

* * *

 

 

Dinner is nearly done. The Christmas Tree is still up and glowing with its array of overdone lights, the tower’s balcony still decorated in multi-colored brightly beaming bulbs that probably won’t be taken down for another couple of weeks.

 

Steve, wooden spoon in hand as he monitors the sauce Bruce’s recipe calls for, smiles slightly at the sound of happily barking puppy and the soft, unbitter laughter that follows. It’s not common enough for him to tell if it’s from Bruce or Tony.

 

“I can’t believe the named it Freedom,” Clint groans from where he’s, helpful that he is, finishing chopping peppers. The pie is slow baking in the oven. “Seriously. How cliché is that?”

 

It’s not. Steve’s just honored that, in a way, they named it after him. Though Tony claims it’s because, if the puppy ever decides to go for an unsupervised jaunt, running around screaming “Freedom!” would be awesome.

 

(“Or inspiring,” the billionaire had offered up, eyeing Steve warily. “Patriotic?... It was Bruce’s idea.” It’s as close to a thank you as Tony will ever give him (as Steve will ever want from him).

 

“Thanks, Steve,” was all Bruce had said, quiet and content in near the same way he is after a long, successful meditation, the puppy content in his arms. (The sight is thanks enough).).

 

Natasha slips behind him, dipping her finger lightly into the sauce for a taste as another burst of laughter, louder than before, cracks from the living room. She doesn’t smile when she looks at him, but her eyes are glinting madly as she licks the mixture from her finger.

 

“Good job,” she offers, and then snakes away to steal a pepper from the protesting Clint.

 

Steve’s grin doesn’t die.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This didn't go where I was aiming for.
> 
> Regardless, I might second-chapter this and show Bruce and Tony waking up to an adorable, fluffy occupant in their bed. With angst.


End file.
